I want to exile
from this still-life (though it is
still life), but I found

so hard even my
own motion within those stiff,
immobile patterns

of living... How knows?
Maybe there is no rise and
fall, but the gaudy

illusion; the cold,
inevitable stasis
of dried paint spots on a wall.

Elegantly poised in a sea of tranquil turmoil  
lifted by gifted hands attached to fragile arms
a Car bomb based in a flesh vase.

Held still by Chlorine Floral Car bonds.
Breathe it in and exhale again and again
a Ban don waist recycled idioms waste

Follow the leader and fall behind clouds
Joviality in small doses, sheep clothing
Aubade in haste sonar demilune about face.